Noticeable Improvements
by blogbuscus
Summary: Set directly after 7.17, Dean and newly-sane Sam work a case of cattle mutilation in Texas. Dean's mind, however, is not on the case. Dean seeks help from unlikely places.
1. Chapter 1

If Dean had felt bad about watching Castiel walk out into the middle of that lake, he sure as Hell felt worse now. Castiel fully understood what he was taking on when he shifted what was left of Sam's soul into himself. The decision to leave Castiel in the psychiatric ward was unanimous. Dean was already plagued by nightmares, dramatically shortening his time spent sleeping, but they were worse now. He'd often wake up, bathed in cold sweat and and the over whelming feeling that something bad was going to happen.

"So, how's it going upstairs?" Dean asked one morning, sitting across from Sam who was reading something on his laptop.

"Surprisingly good, actually," Sam pained a smile and closed the lid on the laptop, "Do you wanna talk about it?"

"Talk about what?" Dean sat back in his chair.

"About why you're not sleeping. You've bearly touched any food."

"I'm not tired or hungry. Lay off, would you?" Dean sighed and rubbed his eyes. He was feeling the strain of his insomnia now. He'd zone out a lot and just stare off into space; he'd make careless mistakes that almost led to him to being skewered alive, courtasy of an angry ghost on one of their lastest hunts; and he'd just be plain cranky. He knew that if Bobby was still here, he'd be ordered to sleep and not allowed out of the house until he was back to normal. Unfortunately, that was never going to happen. His thoughts had wandered in this sleep-deprived state, back to the harsh reality that Cas was stuck in a mental ward, claiming to be seeing Satan. Now, Dean was no expert, but that's enough to get him sectioned.

"Hey, here's something," Sam turned the laptop to Dean, "Cattle mutilations in Oklahoma and Texas."

"That's not really our problem, Sam. We have better things to do than hunt down come hungry coyote."

"23 cows ripped open," Sam paused, "And 3 women torn to shreds."

Dean instantly perked up. This was more their division. All Dean wantred right now was to work a case or two and try to forget.

Sam felt overly-guilty for what had become of Castiel. It was because of him that Castiel was now seeing Lucifer everywhere he looked. The only relief came from the fact the the angel didn't need sleep. Lucifer had tortured Sam for days before Castiel had relieved him. Now Castiel was stuck.

Dean and Sam had decided to check out the mutilations, even though they were clueless on what would do such a thing. The journey was long and coffee-fueled. Most of it was filled with Dean blaring his music in an attempt to keep himself awake. They took turns about driving. Dean didn't mind much; the Impala was still out of bounds until everyone had forgotten about the whole interstate murder spree, thanks to the Leviathans.

They'd made it to Texas just before 9 pm and checked into a cheap motel for the night. Dean had sat up reading one of Bobby's old books until 4 am. Dean was sure he was onto something. Nothing to do with the case, but something that could put his mind to rest. Call it one too many whiskies, or a brain storm, but Dean had found something.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Sorry for the short chapters! I have school and chronic writers block. I'll make them longer and update a couple of times a week. I'm sticking with this one, guys.**_

"So, uh, what's got the bureau involved in this one?" Asked the morgue attendant, regarding Sam and Dean's fake FBI identification.

"Well.. you know, first cattle, now women," Sam tried to explain, "So, cause of death?"

"The body was drained of blood first, all the rips and tears were made post-mortem. Nothing missing exept the left ventricle. Same goes for the other vics."

"The left what?" Dean didn't understand the circulatory jargon.

"The bottom-left part of the heart," Sam addressed Dean, "It's basically the part that pumps the blood around the body."

The morgue attendant left the brothers to it.

"Well, that's vamps ruled out," Sam sighed.

"How? All the vics were sucked dry," Dean said, signaling to the puncture wounds in the young girls neck, "If that doesn't point to Dracula, I'm not sure what does."

"You've got a point..." Sam paused, "But what would a vampire want with a chunk of heart?"

Dean opened his mouth as though he was going to say something, then, defeated, he closed his mouth and looked back to the body.

"Yeah, well whatever it is done a sloppy job. Her neck looks like it's been minced," Dean took a step toward the body. Sam was standing by a table covered in evidence bags.

"Hey, take a look at this."

Dean paced over and took the bag that Sam was studying. In the bag was a small, white tooth. Perfect for ripping a throat open. Dean put the bag into his suit jacket pocket.

The Winchesters left the morgue at a loss. Neither of them knew for sure what they were dealing with. The local police had claimed it was an animal attack. Coyotes specifically. Sam and Dean knew that there was a chance of it being just a super hungry mutt, but whatever it was went from cows to humans and they both knew that wasn't really coyote style.

The case was starting to take Dean's mind off of the past. Hunting was his job. Hell, hunting was his life. Only a handful of people on Earth knew what Dean and Sam had done to stop the apocalypse and they preferred it that way. Dean wouldn't trade his life for the world. He's met some amazing people along the way. Ellen, Jo, Rufus... Castiel. Everyone was gone now. It was just Sam and himself, killing demons and hunting things. The family business.


	3. Chapter 3

**Bit of an OC alert in this part. Don't worry, there is no flirting and it's a one-chapter appearance. oh, and reviews make for quicker updates and longer chapters! Enjoy.**

After another day of fruitless investigation, the Winchesters sat in their grotty motel room in a comfortable silence. Sam sat on his bed, trolling through his dad's old journal, praying that it had some information on how to lure, or at least track, a wendigo. He'd read over every page of the battered old journal years ago when they were still hunting Azazel; he'd memorized the majority of it. Neither of them had even looked at it in years. Dean sat at the table, researching on the laptop. He was not searching for anything related to the case; his interest lay with an old friend.

If you were to take all of Dean Winchester's pent-up emotion and give it to another man, odds are that it wouldn't be long before that man cracked. There is only so much emotional stress a person can take before they're dragged, kicking and screaming, into a padded room and made to eat over-cooked slop for the rest of their days. Dean had learned to suppress these feelings. His outlets mainly lay with ganking demons and burning bones. This allowed him to release some built up anger, but it did not help the reservoir of guilt that forever lay t the back of his mind, threatening to overflow.

Dean closed the internet tab that displayed a local auction site and stood up.

"Hey, uh..." Dean ran his hand through his hair, "I'm gonna grab a bite to eat. Want anything?"

"Yeah, I'll come with," Sam closed the journal, yearning to stretch his legs.

"I think I can find my way to the store on my own, Sam," Dean snapped. He was on edge thanks to sleep deprivation. Sam didn't appreciate his older bother snapping at him for no good reason, but he knew as well as anyone what minimal sleep does to a guy. He just sat back and opened the journal again; which was now feeling the full force of the infamous "Sam Winchester bitch face."

Dean left the hotel and revved up the old cherry-red Mustang the he had hot-wired a few towns over. He was headed to a local hunter's house. Sharron Markman was a woman in her early forties. She was known among the hunters for having a huge amount of summoning supplies, rare weapons, and a well-stocked minibar. She'd managed to slip out of "the life" and became a valuable ally for many a hunter.

"Uh... Sharron?" Dean asked as the old wooden door swung open.

"Yeah, that's me," She beamed at Dean, "You look like a Winchester."

"Right... Dean Winchester," Dean was apprehensive. He had no idea how she knew his surname. She invited him into her sitting room. Sharron took her place in an old, worn armchair and Dean remained standing.

"I'm sorry about Bobby," Sharron's face grew sympathetic.

"Me too," Dean said, only a little louder than a mumble, "I need to ask you a favour."

"Whatever you need, honey," A smile was inked across her face once more.

Dean handed her a list of things he needed and she got to work finding them all. It didn't take long to gather all of the items on the list. Most of them were pretty standard ingredients; lambs blood and exotic plants and seasonings. Sharron handed Dean and picnic basket full of the things he needed.

"Sorry, I'm fresh out of carrier bags," She joked.

Dean felt that his masculinity has been somewhat insulted, but he got what he needed.

"You're summoning a big one by the looks," Her face dropped into something that resembled motherly concern. Dean didn't react, he was still glaring at the wicker basket in his hand.

"Yeah, I guess I am... if I don't get jumped by Yogi Bear first," Dean really was repulsed by what Sharron has chosen as a suitable means to transportation for the summoning materials.

Sharron laughed light heartedly. This is why the hunters loved this woman. You could burst into her home uninvited and covered with blood, but she would still welcome you with open arms, a warm smile, and a glass of whiskey. She used to be quite a hunter back in the day, but those days were long gone.


	4. Chapter 4

**Double update! Thanks to all the bros who have favourited and stuck this in their update alerts. Now, this chapter is where things get interesting.**

It was past midnight when Dean stumbled back to the motel. He had stopped for a "few drinks" on his way back. The prospect of the task at hand frightened him, although he would never admit to being scared. He wasn't scared of the wendigo that he and Sam were tailing, he had something else on his mind. He didn't go back to his room, but instead he headed down an alley way between a sky-rise set of appartments and the motel block. He sat on the damp ground and unpacked the insultingly femanine picnic basket. He put all of the items in a small brass bowl and sat staring at it. Dean knew he was reasonably drunk, but he needed to be if he was going to do something this stupid. This was very out of character for any Winchester.

He sat silently for at least a minute. _It's now or never, _he thought. With that, he extracted a match box from his jacket pocket and stuck a match. He watch the flame crawl slowly toward his fingers for a good few seconds before dropping it into a bowl.

The whole alley way lit up neon blue and for a second, Dean thought it would attract the attention of a random passer-by. The blue flame died down and the alley way returned back to it's dimly lit state. Letting out an unnecessarily loud sigh of frustration, Dean got to his feet. He took a step back from the bowl before kicking it as hard as he could. There was a satisfying clatter from 20 feet down the alley when the bowl smashed into the side of a dumpster. He was angry. Really angry.

"Easy there, Winchester," a playful voice teased from behind him. On instinct, Dean turned on his heels and pulled out the gun that he stashed in the pack of his jeans.

"So you call me all the way down here to point a gun at my face? Such horrible manners."

The young man was about the same height as Dean. His hair was dark and messy with random strands falling onto his forehead. HIs eyes momentarily captivated Dean. They there an unnatrally light shade of brown, verging on amber. His clothes were nothing special. Just a pair of well worn jeans, an unbranded t-shirt, and a plain black jacket.

"The name's Sariel. Now, you going to shoot me or tell me what you want? Fair warning, one of those options is unwise. I'm not exactly known for my fair temper," Sariel's face was the epitome of serious.

"You know, I thought you'd be a chick. Sariel isn't exactly-," Dean shut up when he saw Sariel raise a hand, ready to click his fingers. Dean knew what could happen when an angel clicked his fingers. Castiel spontaneously exploded the last time he saw an angel click. Dean lowered his gun and Sariel lowered his hand.

"You're an angel of healing, right?" Dean was trying not to slur his words.

"Archangel, actually," Sariel corrected him, "I'm also an archangel of death. Oh, and you know Moses? I was the one to collect his soul." His voice was saturated in pride. He sounded so smug that Dean grimaced.

"Let me guess, you want me to help our poor mad Castiel." This wasn't a question, he knew exactly why he was summoned.

"We need his help, but he's no use to us if he's seeing big brother Lucifer everywhere." For once, Dean wasn't trying to make witty comments, he was deadly serious.

"I understand that much, but that makes you think I _want _to help him? I'm still not even sure why I didn't smite you on the spot. Besides, it's your fault he's in this mess in the first place."

The words hit Dean like a tonne of bricks. He was used to telling himself it was his fault, but hearing it from someone else hurt like Hell.


End file.
